Operation Red Herring (Countryhumans Alternate History)

Chapter 17

The next week passed by in a daze. America went about her day keeping track of weapons, rations, soldiers. and really anything else that could be counted. She had seen Italy throughout the week, but he was constantly going to bed right after dinner. It was quite odd, but she supposed it made sense. He had been staying up all night for weeks on end with her- it was bound to catch up to him eventually. It was odd though, how he almost seemed drunk those nights. She didn't think anyone else noticed, as it was very subtle, but America could tell when he wasn't quite sober anymore. A clouded look would enter his eyes, which was scarily similar to how her eyes had looked on the many nights she had spent under the influence decades ago.

She chalked it up to his wine. Although he had never seemed to be affected by it in that way, the glass of wine Italy usually drank at dinner was the only answer America could think of. When she brought it up to Third Reich, he had shrugged, explaining that he had bought a different brand, and it had a higher alcohol percentage.

She took his word for it.

Of course, it was a bit lonely, just sitting in the kitchen by herself. She found herself eyeing the liquor cabinet more and more, as there was no conversation to distract herself with. However, she always managed to pry herself away before she could have a drink, as the last thing she wanted was for her drinking issue to rear its ugly head again, especially whilst they were in the middle of a war.

So, she took to wandering the halls at night, like some lost spirit from an old novel. It was quite peaceful, lazily strolling in the moonlight that streamed through the windows. America had quite a bit of experience sneaking around, mainly from her days as a rebellious colony under Britain's scornful eye. This was useful, as she was confident in her ability to do this without being caught.

Those nights, oftentimes she would find herself walking out to the porch, with the coat Japan had given her wrapped tightly around her figure. America would look out, and not be able to see very much. The moon dimly lit the wooden surface of the railing, but that was about it. The rest of the world seemed to be bathed in darkness, surrounding her and threatening to engulf her in its suffocating stillness. It was worth it though, when America would sit on the porch steps, watching with bleary eyes as the sun rose, its rosy morning glow illuminating the once inky sky.

The sunrise and sunset had always been things that America looked forward to. When she was younger, it was sometimes the only way she could tell how many days had passed with her locked in her room, the orange-pink light being her sole connection to the outside world. America tried very hard to deny this being the reason, often trying to blame the sky's beauty for her fondness, instead of it being yet another way she had been influenced by her less than ideal upbringing. Yet, in the end, she had to face the facts: She hated the color orange, and liked it purely because if she could see the sunrise or set, feel the warm light on her fingertips, she was sure that she was still alive, and that the world was still moving.

America sighed, watching the sun rise once again. A part of her hated how much of her was shaped by the sheer desire of her younger self to survive and live freely, despite the blows and locked doors that stood in her way. How different would she be if Britain had just given her independence? If she didn't have to fight for everything?

She didn't think she wanted to know the answer. It wouldn't change the facts, and frankly, the idea of trying to pinpoint what parts of her were shaped by it all gave her a headache. She was like a marble, many different layers of fragile glass, woven and fused together so tightly that they were inseparable. There was no way to seperate the layers of herself, let alone analyze them, so she decided to just let it be.

America stood up, stretching for a moment before heading back inside. She walked through the halls, finally entering her room and quietly closing the door behind her. She threw the coat over the back of her chair (she would pick that up later... probably), and plopped down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was a pretty average ceiling- white, kinda bumpy, a few cracks near the corners of the room- you know, standard ceiling stuff.